The Art of Not Thinking
by kerianne
Summary: Vic thinks too much. Helena helps him stop. QuestionHuntress, basically a PWP, albeit a characterdriven one.


**Title:** The Art of Not Thinking**  
Author:** Kerianne  
**Pairing:** Question/Huntress  
**Warnings:** Strong (though not very explicit) adult/sexual themes.  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own any of these characters or the media in which they appear.

**The Art of Not Thinking**

He knows what this is. He has always known. It's neurons firing, hormones fluctuating, primal subconscious drives overwhelming the rational mind and systematically destroying inhibitions. Face flushes, heart rate increases, breathing quickens-- the ancient system sets itself into motion, carefully building the beautiful lie millions have begged and stolen and killed and died for.

He likes to tell himself that he sees through it.

"You're thinking again." Helena looks down at him, the amused smile on her face partially obscured by strands of dark hair, and lets her weight settle onto his hips. "Tell me."

He closes his eyes, tries to concentrate on the disjointed scraps of thought as she shifts her body slowly against his. "Dopamine," he murmurs. "A neurotransmitter commonly associated with the pleasure system of the brain, released during sexual activity to reinforce and motivate..." Her hand trails down his stomach and lower, and he stops, biting his lip.

"Is that right?" She leans over and breathes soft laughter into his ear. "You just know _everything,_ don't you?"

_Not everything,_ he thinks, as his body shifts involuntarily to fit against hers. He notices things. He doesn't know how to stop noticing things, even now, even when he's not supposed to think, just to breathe and move and feel. She's small compared to him, slim body pressed close to his broad chest, but strong-- firm muscles in her arms and legs and stomach, outlined beneath soft, smooth skin.

"Tell me," she whispers against his lips between fierce kisses. She likes to play this game, get him talking just to feel his breath catch, hear him trail off into incoherent moans, watch his carefully guarded control fall apart under her touch.

"Hormones released into the bloodstream... react with mood-altering chemicals introduced to the body from drinking water and..." She wraps her hand around him, stroking him rhythmically, and the chain of connections in his mind shatters. "Induce suggestibility-- God, Helena..."

"Mmm. I love it when you talk crazy," she teases, her hand gradually slowing and stilling, pulling him back from the edge of bright chaos. He draws a deep, shaky breath, tries to slow the desperate pounding of his heart.

"Symptoms," he says, half to himself, as she guides his hands to her breasts. "Heightened awareness of physical sensation, dulling of mental acuity, loss of control over motor and speech functions..." His fingers trace absent spirals around and over her nipples.

"Mm-hmm." She arches into him, head tilting forward so her hair tumbles into her face and over his hands. He looks at her and thinks of fierceness and beauty, wild grace, hidden tenderness behind closed lids. Irrational thoughts-- the chemicals in his blood telling him that she too could launch a thousand ships if she tried, could be worth life and death and everything.

"Feelings of affection and attachment," he finishes quietly, feeling her shiver at the rough flick of his thumb across one nipple. "Long-lasting and often incurable."

Her eyes open and flash and he knows the game has changed. She moves like a warrior, up and over and pinning him against the bed before he can react, and though his blood buzzes with a sudden jolt of adrenaline-- _general discharge of the sympathetic nervous system known as the fight-or-flight response, also activated by certain secret frequencies undetectable to human ears--_ he makes no attempt to resist.

"Now let me tell you something," she says into his ear, as she lifts her hips and brushes against him in a slow dance of maddening temptation.

"Helena--" It comes out more gasp than word, and his muscles tense almost painfully.

"You think too much." Her tongue traces the curve of his ear lightly. "Let's do something about that. And then she's moving, sliding down onto him, guiding him inside her, and for a moment he doesn't even remember to breathe. Carefully constructed webs of ideas in his mind fragment, drift away, blur together into perfect meaninglessness, and as she slowly shifts around him the world narrows to nothing but heat and softness and friction.

"God, Vic." Her eyes are bright, her voice breathless. "Talk to me."

He mumbles something incoherent, groans her name, tells her not to stop-- it doesn't matter what he says, he doesn't think she's paying attention to the words, but her back arches and she moves faster against him at the sound of his voice. She shivers, gasping, her movements increasingly erratic and wild, and he's touching her, rubbing hard and quick and rough to accelerate her loss of control.

She gives a sharp primal cry that is almost his name and shudders, clenching and releasing around him in waves of release. The sudden rush of sensation makes points of light explode behind his eyes, but before he can fully process it all she catches her breath and she's moving again, exhausted and beautiful, for him. He hears himself babbling desperate nonsense until she kisses him over and over, his words disappearing into her lips, and then he's almost there and then he's there, the world sliding away toward brilliant white noise.

Long moments pass before his awareness returns, and when it does it's dulled, the typical hyperfocused activity of his mind obscured by a fog of tired satisfaction. She's collapsed against his shoulder, and when he shifts to withdraw she lifts her head and opens her eyes. "What are you thinking?"

Drifting somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, he murmurs a response. "Possible connection between sexual bonding hormones and increase in engagement ring sales. Must... mmm... investigate later."

She laughs softly, presses her face into his neck. "Anything _else?_"

"You're amazing." He didn't quite intend to say it, but her body is a pleasant soft pressure against him and he's filled with a warmth that can't adequately be explained by chemicals and random electrical signals in his brain. Something else to investigate later, perhaps.

He feels her smile, her hand finding his and twining their fingers together. "Good. You're not _totally_ hopeless."

He likes to tell himself that he sees through it, that he's above the mindless aching need for feeling and friction and oblivion. Somewhere beneath it all he knows, has always known, that he is wrong.

Maybe it will be his downfall. Maybe she will lead him down the path of ruin, addict him to that elusive peace of mind he's found only in her touch and leave him desperate and alone. And maybe as she settles into exhausted rest on his shoulder, he won't be the one she whispers to in her dreams.

Maybe, he decides in his final waking moment, he just thinks too much.

**the end**


End file.
